


If we can't build peace, can we at least rebuild me?

by HistoriaGloria



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Angst, First World War, Gen, Minor Character Death, Some hurt/comfort, War-bots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: 'The Spine hated the trenches. The Spine hated the mud and the cold and the way the men looked out here. The Spine just hated the war.'As the First World War drags on, The Spine just wants to go home. He just wants his family to be okay.But out here, in the battlegrounds of France and Belgium, it all seems so far away.





	If we can't build peace, can we at least rebuild me?

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I have an infinity of ideas about War-Bots and angst. I hope you enjoy this and I promise, the next one will be less sad! I have a Vice Quadrant fic in the making.

The Spine hated the trenches. The Spine hated the mud and the cold and the way the men looked out here. The Spine just hated the war. They kept calling it the Great War, the war to end all others but all The Spine wanted was for it to be over, so he could take his family home.

He looked over at his siblings, who were all powered down. Hatchworth was still venting a lot of steam, having only just managed to slip into stasis beside the Jon.

7 months the robots had been at war. 7 long, heavy, painful months.

It was beginning to take its toll on all of them. Rabbit's stutter was worse than ever, sometimes leaving the automaton stuck in a loop of a repeating word until someone intervened. Hatchworth stayed in stasis long hours, trying to gain enough energy to do his job. The Jon had stopped smiling, stopped laughing, stopped going everywhere at 100 miles per hour. And The Spine himself? He couldn't power down for more than an hour or so at a time without jerking awake, fearful that his family had been destroyed in the shelling or taken by the enemy. That in itself was grating on his servos and left him constantly exhausted.

But he never said anything.

The only people who cared about the automatons out here were the automatons themselves and The Spine cared too much about his pride and his family to tell them.

He would be fine. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Soldiers bustled past them on errands but none of them spared a second glance for the four robots sat silently producing steam. Until a young private paused on his way past the automatons, his pale grey eyes raking over the offline bots.

“Are they okay?” He asked, head turned towards The Spine. The silver automaton jerked at being spoken to like an actual person.

“J-Just powered d-d-down.” The Spine scowled at the stutter in his own voice, a clear sign he was exhausted. “They n-need their rest.”

“I ain't never seen things like ya before,” admitted the boy as he fiddled with his water canteen.

“There isn't any th-th-thing like us.” Usually, that would have been a biting remark, but it just came out tired.

“I'm sorry, 'course not. 'M Jim, Jim Fisher.” He held out a hand and The Spine frowned, reaching up to gingerly shake. He was very aware that he was powerful enough to break all the bones in his hand without a second thought.

“The Spine. Th-that's R-R-R-Rabbit, The J-Jon and Hatchworth.” He indicated each of the other automatons with a wave.  “Excuse m-m-my stammer, my voice-box has b-b-been active for too long.” Jim cautiously leant against the trench wall beside The Spine.

“Well, tha's alright, Mister Spine. Perhaps ya should get some rest too.” The Spine shook his head firmly.

“I can't. G-g-got to protect them.” Jim gave a soft sigh but before he could speak, The Spine cut in, “Why-y-y-y did you stop to talk to m-me?”

“'Coz you looked lonely. An' all the guys talk about 'em tin things' so I thought I better try to talk to ya. Seen as no one else does.” The Spine pondered that for a second and gave a little shrug.

“They d-d-don't see us as w-worth conversation. W-w-we're just metal. Helpful h-h-hunks of metal for rescue missions.” Even to his own audioreceptors, he sounded bitter and Jim winced a little.

“I don' think that. I think ya guys do great work.”

The Spine's photoreceptors roved over the other automatons and he puffed out heavy breath of steam.

“It's k-k-killing us. I've n-never seen my f-f-family in such a state.” He rubbed one silver hand over his faceplate and a mechanical shudder jerked down his spinal column, making his head tic roughly to the side. “P-P-Problem is, the military only see us as weapons, so they t-t-toss us into the most dangerous areas, as often as p-p-possible. We barely get time to r-recharge. Not that we ever take lives. Our-r-r father built us to b-b-brighten lives, not take them.”

“So yer like conscientious objectors?”

The Spine gave a soft snort.

“I guh-guh-guh-guess you could say that. We get soldiers safely back here, l-l-less lives are l-l-lost that way.” Before Jim could respond, two burly privates came sauntering past. They were new to the front lines; The Spine could tell by the way they spoke, too loudly for the sombre nature of war.

“Hey, Jimmy, what ya doing talking to the tin can?”

“Can he even talk back?” The Spine didn’t speak, didn’t grace them with a response, but Jim scowled.

“Perhaps, you’d know if ya ever tried being nice to somebody, huh Eric?” Eric, The Spine presumed, scowled but turned his attention to him.

“Well, mush o’ metal? Can you talk?”

“I am perfectly capable of speech, th-th-thank you,” spat The Spine, mentally cursing his sticking gears. Eric and his buddy snorted at the stammer.

“P-p-Perfectly c-c-capable!” They mocked, and Eric turned to the other automatons. “What about these useless hunks o’ scrap? Can they talk? Or should we just toss ‘em over the top?” With that, he heaved up The Jon and The Spine saw red.

A snarl pushed its way through his teeth and he lunged for the bullies, pinning Eric to the filthy trench wall by his throat.

“I-I wouldn’t if I w-w-wuh-were you.” There was a heavy crash of metal as the private dropped The Jon and squirmed under The Spine’s powerful grip.

“Let me go!” His grip tightened incrementally.

“One squeeze and I could t-t-tear through your th-throat. D-Don’t you d-d-d-DARE come near my family again.” And The Spine dropped him, watching coldly as the two privates scrambled away. In all the commotion, he had failed to notice the tell-tale hum of The Jon powering up until there was a gentle trill,

“Big brother?” The Spine turned as The Jon got to his feet, giving him a small, sad smile.

“I-I-I… The J-J-Jon…” But The Jon just hugged him tightly around his middle and he couldn’t help put cling to his younger brother quietly.

“You need rest,” admonished the golden bot, frowning. “Your voice-box is sticking again.” Jim took this moment to remind them that he was there,

“Y’all okay? Gave me a fright, ya did. Don’ wanna get on your bad side!” The Spine looked at his feet.

“I a-a-apologise. I d-don’t know what came o-over me.”

“You wanted to protect ya family. Tha’s completely natural. Even ‘uman.” Jim was grinning a little and The Spine relaxed ever so slightly. “I’ll let ya get back to ya rest. But you know where to find me.” The young private headed off and The Jon gently pushed his elder brother back down on to the crate he had been sitting on.

“It’s okay to need to rest, Spine. We all have to power down.” For a split-second, The Spine considered telling The Jon about his nightmares and how he was too afraid to power down for a long period of time. But then he thought better of it. He was The Spine, the backbone of the group. He was never weak.

“As do y-you.” He responded, but he let The Jon settle down on the box beside him, the consistent hum of his brother’s boiler washing over him soothingly. Before he had realised it was happening, The Spine was lulled into a slow, easy shut-down, the first one in months.

 

* * *

 

His rest didn’t last long as a couple of hours later, he was switched back on roughly. His optics slowly responding, he staggered upright as the other automatons came to. Colonel Palmer was stood there, eyebrows pressed together in a heavy frown.

“You’re needed over the top. Mustard gas.” The Spine wanted to argue as he watched Hatchworth stumble, trying to right himself but he knew that Palmer wasn’t the person to argue with. Aside from the private, Jim, who had stopped, he was the only human who had showed them any kindness out here. He always looked pained when he had to send them over the top and wished them luck. Rabbit patted The Spine’s shoulder,

“C-come on c-c-cowboy.” The Spine sighed and yanked his helmet low over his brow. Rabbit never failed to remind them all that they were saving lives out here. People got home alive, injured, but alive because of them. The Jon gave a sad sigh as he lifted up his medic’s pack and clicked his servos into gear. The Spine helped Hatchworth upright and received a faint smile in thanks as the four automatons began to clamber over the top into No Man’s Land, Palmer saluting them politely as they left.

No Man’s Land. Aptly named, The Spine had always thought as they crouched, slowly making their way across the torn-up mud. It was completely silent right now, the German troops waiting for the mustard gas to dissipate before they resumed their attack and there never were any creatures up here. The gas was heavy, blanketing the ground in front of them but their photoreceptors could easily pick out movement even now. Gas was something that haunted The Spine’s nightmares and he knew it would for years to come. It crept into every crevasse, every shell-hole, every nook it could find on this battleground; a great yellow-green monster searching out its prey.

The Spine’s head ticked sharply to the side as he heard a pitiful cry; someone caught out here. He gestured to Rabbit and split off quickly, hurrying over the damp ground.

The young man was lying in a shell hole, his gas mask just out of reach and by the look of the blood, he’d taken a bullet to the hip. The Spine slipped down into the hole and grabbed the mask quickly.

“Try not to breathe, you’re g-g-going to be okay.” He assured him, moving back over to gently slide the mask over the man’s face. He recoiled at the sight of the ‘bot, but it didn’t bother The Spine. He was used to it.

“Okay, you’re going to be okay. Can you give m-me your name and c-c-company?”

“P-Private Henry Moss. Lancashire Fusiliers.” His voice was muffled by the mask, but it lacked the tell-tale rasp of someone with damage from the mustard gas. He may just be okay. He was a Brit, The Spine thought as his green optics roved over the man to check for anymore wounds. It was unusual but sometimes the forces could get mixed up out here, especially if the Brit had gotten lost trying to get back to his own troops.

“Alright, Private Moss. Stay still, I’m going to pick you up.” In one swift, but cautious movement, The Spine pulled the immobile soldier on to his shoulder. “Can you keep talking to m-m-me?” He began to move out of the hole, careful of his precious cargo.

“Hurts,” grunted Henry as The Spine returned to his cautious canvassing of No Man’s Land.

“Your hip? It’s n-n-not fatal though; you will recover.” Up ahead, he could see Rabbit, stooped to pick up another solider.

“You’re made of metal,” said Henry, his voice laced with confusion. The Spine snorted softly.

“S-s-s-straight to the p-p-point, ay? Yes. I’m an automaton.” He traipsed through the mud, his sensitive hearing tuned to try and pick up the slightest sound, lest it be a solider. His audioreceptors weren’t working at full capacity, considering his lack of continual stasis but his hearing was still much sharper than that of a normal human’s.

“Oh,” was all Henry could respond to that as they slowly stumbled through the wasteland. A moment later, The Spine heard another individual, closer this time, but by the sound of their heavy breaths, they didn’t have long. He broke into a cautious, loping jog, finding a middle-aged man in an American uniform half buried in the mud. The mustard gas had clearly reached his lungs by the rattling breaths, but The Spine wasn’t about to give up. He knelt beside him, careful not to knock Henry.

“Sir, sir, can you tell m-m-me your name?” The man’s eyes shot open, unseeing and terrified.

“Blind, c-can’t see, hurts so much… I-I just want to go home!” The Spine gave a heavy sigh, knowing instinctively he couldn’t save him. The mustard gas had gotten too deep and by the reddish colour of the mud, this soldier had also taken hits.

“Where is h-h-home?” He kept his voice low, reassuring.

“At-Atlanta. With my d-daughter. Rosie, Rosie…” The Spine latched on to this, trying to comfort the dying soldier.

“Tell me about Rosie. H-H-How old is she?” He gently shifted the man so that he was more comfortable, but his breathing was worsening by the second. He didn’t have long left.

“S-Seven… Rosie. My little-” He coughed roughly, blood trickling from his lips and gently, The Spine wiped it away. “My little Rosie.” The man drew one last shuddering breath. He didn’t inhale again. Bowing his head sadly, the automaton closed the soldier’s eyes.

“Be at p-p-peace.” In one smooth movement, The Spine stood and began to return to his search, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to find many more alive in this dense gas. On his shoulder, Henry was quiet, but The Spine could hear his breaths next to his ear and he knew the soldier was alive. He hoped that the lack of speech was the choice of the soldier.

The Spine found one more individual, unconscious but still breathing before he began to return to the trenches. As he reached the edge of No Man’s Land, he spotted Hatchworth, who was carrying three soldiers of his own.

“A-A-Alright?” He asked softly as his brother came over.

“Yes, big bro-ther. You look wea-ry.” The Spine merely gave him a sad smile as they clambered carefully back to the medical base. There, they found Rabbit and The Jon, both looking very solemn. The Spine and Hatchworth gently lay down their precious cargoes and left the soldiers to the capable hands of the nurses. Just as they turned to leave, Private Moss called out, the nurse gently removing his gas mask now he was safe,

“H-hey, Mister Automaton?” The Spine turned, tilting his head in mild confusion. “Th-thank you. Because of you, I’ll get to see Britain again.” They exchanged a faint smile and the silver automaton tipped his helmet in understanding.

“H-h-heal well, Private Moss.” He returned to stand with the other automatons and Rabbit gently patted his shoulder.

“C-c-come on, l-l-little brother. We all need t-t-to rest.” The Jon’s head was bowed and Hatchworth had one arm around him; but Rabbit gave him a warm smile, one that didn’t reach those mismatched optics that The Spine put more trust in than he would ever admit.

“Y-Y-yes. We should rest wh-whilst we can.”

And, as quietly as they could, the four automatons clanked away to find somewhere to power down.

 

* * *

 

And the war wore on. The Spine began to lose hope that it would ever end.

Every week, Private Jim Fisher would come to sit with him as he cleaned out his gun. He would tell The Spine about his home, in South Carolina, about his sisters, about his mother and father. In return, The Spine told him about San Diego; about Peter Walter I and Miss Iris; about the twins, Two and Three. Jim would talk to Rabbit about home too, but he talked to The Jon about birds and flowers and he talked to Hatchworth about food and how to cook. Jim had become a very good friend to them all.

One week, Jim didn’t come over. The Spine searched No Man’s Land for him, to no avail. So many men went missing in this war but the loss of one who had been so kind to them was a heavy blow. The Jon never stopped looking for him and Rabbit promised that they would write him into a song. Hatchworth was even quieter than before.

The Spine stopped going into stasis all together until his systems shut-down and forced him into it.

 

* * *

 

November 1918 saw the end of the war, saw the return home of the Walter Bots. It should have been a happy moment but none of them could muster the energy for that. The Spine wondered if Private Moss had appreciated seeing Britain again; if little Rosie in Atlanta would remember her father fondly; if Jim Fisher’s family had received the news that he was lost on the battlefield…

The war had shaken the ‘bots very cores; seeing so many young men slaughtered in horrific ways had left them all with nightmares.

But The Jon was the worst.

The Spine barely recognised his little brother, now dealing with a sharp head tick and a constant tremor in his left hand. Hatchworth had not let go of him except for necessities in weeks. Rabbit had worried over them all, the protective eldest sibling nature kicking in.

But now they were getting sent home. And there was a small glimmer of hope that there, back in San Diego, with their Pappy, they might be able to recover.

Might be able to smile again.

Might be able to sing again.

Might be able to move on from the horror that was the Great War.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Isabelle Bunny Bennett's song, Transform, which has gotten me through some really rough times. 
> 
> There are purposefully no pronouns used for Rabbit in this one. 
> 
> I hope my information on WW1 is good; I know a lot about it from a British perspective but I'm a lot more wary about American involvement.


End file.
